"I do not know what you are saying," I interrupted, passionately angry. "What is it to me, the disgrace attaching to your family? That could not sway me. It is unknown to me."
"Unknown to you?" he repeated in accents of surprise.
"Entirely unknown, save for vague rumours that I have not wished to attend to. The disgrace lies with you, sir, not with your family."
"With me? What have I done? Do you mean in having spoken to you of love?" he added, finding I did not answer. "At least, I do not see that disgrace could be charged on me for that. I intended to lay the case openly before you, and it would have been at your option to accept or reject me."
"Do you call deceit and dishonour no disgrace, Mr. Chandos?"
"Great disgrace. But I have not been guilty of either."
"You have been guilty of both."
"When? and how?"
"To me. You know it. You know it, sir. Had my father been alive; had I any friend in the world to protect me, I do not think you would have dared to speak to me of love."
"Were your father, Colonel Hereford, alive, Anne, I should lay the whole case before him, and say—'Judge for yourself; shall, or shall not your daughter be mine?' I fancy he would find the objection less insuperable than you appear to do."